


To Unravel A Wound

by sairsfroot (thasmins)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Future Fic, Minor Injuries, Rekindling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 14:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16855468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thasmins/pseuds/sairsfroot
Summary: The one where Yaz and the Doctor meet again.





	To Unravel A Wound

**Author's Note:**

> i meant for this to be a oneshot but then it turned into a 4 part fic uwu

Out of the blue, the TARDIS wheezes herself in existence.

Yaz hears this, and a nearly-fatal mistake occurs. In a second, she pauses, and a punch lands on her abdomen.

Her left knee meets the concrete first. With quick reflexes, her hands graze the hard surface, saving her head from a bloody bruise and a potentially severe concussion. Curses whisper out of her mouth.

Her attacker makes a run for it; she gives up on this stupid chase. Gives the catch to the asshole copper she works with that she pretty sure knows is guilty of abusing his string of girlfriends more than twice. She’s fucking _pissed_ , and the family dinner is sure to be suffocated in the awkward silence.

“Yaz!”

Her head turns, and the Doctor is rushing to her aid.

“Oh my stars,” they say, turning one of her palms and revealing fresh scrapes iced in blood. “I’ll get a first-aid kit. Be back in a flash.”

“Doctor—”

But before Yaz could even start her protest, the alien has zoomed back into the TARDIS.

She exhales a frustrated sigh.

 

* * *

 

True to their word, the Doctor makes haste and reappears with a small briefcase, holding the handle with their right hand and their sonic screwdriver in the other.

“I kinda forgot the passcode to this,” they say, laying the kit on the wet, concrete surface beside Yaz. They wave the sonic screwdriver and point at the lock. The case clicks open at the sound. “Oh, Brilliant!”

Yaz watches intently as the alien plucks out an advanced gadget that looks like a barcode scanner. Their thumb flicks a switch, and it boots into life with a series of pitchy sounds and a soothing green light.

“I’m so so sorry,” they apologise as they held the device over her scrapes. And they say this over and over again.

Yaz wants to say something, but when she’s prepared to talk, a shooting sting in her abdomen slices the unspoken words and all that comes out is a sharp gasp.

When she grasps for her shirt, where the pain burns the most, she notices the concerning dampness of the fabric.

_Oh, shit._

“Yaz?” the Doctor calls.

Their eyes meet with the detective’s shirt—in which a deep shade of red is blooming gradually. “ _Oh fuck,_ Yaz!”

The brunette winces when the Time Lord presses her pale hand below her torso. Bites her lip as the barcode-scanner-that’s-actually-the-first-aid-kit’s green light targets the wound.

“Ugh, this is very cheap, nasty first-aid from the 24th century, I’m so sorry!” They twist a small knob several times, but the pain barely lessens. “Kits like these were very slow in augmenting healing processes of deeper wounds, of you just rip your shirt open, you can literally see your own flesh folding in!”

To prove their point, the Doctor hastily unfastens the shirt’s buttons. What’s exposed is a severe gash running from just below Yaz’s torso to just above her navel—and the grisly, blood-coated parted flesh is slowly creeping up to meet and glue themselves with each other.

“Bleeding hell, Yaz, who did this to you? Aren’t you supposed to be off-duty?”

The inquiries come packed like swift punches, though it’s just the Doctor’s concern for the detective. Yaz is only grateful for the alien’s help; she didn’t plan on losing her life to a drunk burglar.

“Just a chap who’s had too much to drink, honestly,” she says instead, which is half-true anyways.

The Doctor gives her a concerned glance; furrowed brows, parted lips, hazel eyes staring with worry. They have one knee down on the concrete floor and keep the first-aid instrument pointed on the healing wound.

It beeps in consecutive rhythms. They frown when they read over it.

Yaz has short-lived flashbacks of her first travels with the Time Lord. On Tsuranga, the surprised look she gave when she first laid eyes upon the sleeping Doctor, calm and quiet. The concern she had for them is equal to their own for her injuries.

“Alright, Detective Inspector Yasmin Khan,” they announce, taking pride in her recent promotion, “you’re staying with me in the TARDIS tonight.”

She would protest if it isn’t for the stab wound she was unaware of. In fairness, she fought off three drunken men before going after the burglar.

The plan—albeit a bloody botched one now that she thinks about it—was to arrest the burglar before seeking any medical attention.

The wound, though healing in a rapid pace, stings like hell. She isn’t sure how she wasn’t paying attention to it now.

It won’t hurt to step inside those doors again. The TARDIS is practically begging her to come back through a string of telepathic messages in her head.

Still, she doesn’t know whether the burning sensation of the gash is the one she’s gasping in pain at. The Doctor ripped off bandages covering stale old wounds by simply coming to her aid.

Though, for two people who haven’t seen each other for a considerate amount of time, they’re both continuously sending text messages to each other. Literally anything happening in their daily lives, they’d talk about it. Close friends, they say to each other. They’re close friends.

Yet when the Doctor looks at her, with their buzzing hazel irises, there’s obvious tension in them that suggest that they _should_ be something more. And they were. For a time being.

Yaz is confused more now than ever. It’s more saddening than infuriating. Here, the Doctor is—after 7 years since they last saw each other from her timeline.

Seven. Bloody. Years.

And that same fleeting feeling fluttering inside Yaz’s stomach is prevalent even now.

_If I could just—_

She steals the opportunity, leans towards the Doctor’s face, and presses a chaste kiss on their soft lips. When she pulls herself away, the Time Lord’s parted lips speak silence. Their eyes tell her everything she needs to know.

“I’ll stay,” Yaz replies. She’s ready for the bandaged wounds to heal.


End file.
